


(Glowing Like the Metal) On the Edge of a Knife

by peterpan_in_neverland



Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Blood, EVERYONE - Freeform, Everybody Lives, F/F, Hospitals, I promise, Some angst, Swearing, but i cannot stress enough that EVERYBODY LIVES, general lack of knowledge in care and dressing of wounds, islamaphobia, just some light stabbing, okay real tags now, stab related angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 20:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16248929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland
Summary: hope you enjoy! <3





	(Glowing Like the Metal) On the Edge of a Knife

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoy! <3

You didn’t know the guy had a knife. 

 

Well, technically, you didn’t really care if he had or not. At least, not until you walked home, blood ruining one of your favourite shirts and a nasty cut on your side that stretched it’s way up your arm. It wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, and you hadn’t  _ actually _ been stabbed. Just cut nasty enough to bleed for ages. You pushed the pain out of your mind and started to climb the six flights of stairs up to your apartment. 

 

You were grateful to make it home, walking up the last flight of stairs, holding the cut along your side. You didn’t want to think about what Phillipa would say once she saw you. She was a worrier, much more than you, and you often thought that it was what made the both of you living together work so well. You worried too little, she worried too much. A happy medium. 

 

You reached your door and realized at that moment that you had forgotten your keys, so you knocked. You heard Phillipa's footsteps approach, and she must have looked through the peephole, because you heard a gasp. The door flew open. Phillipa was standing on the other side, her face pale, and one hand covering her mouth.

 

“Y/N!” She cried out, and pulled you inside, pushing the door closed. She started to look you up and down, her eyes frantic. 

 

“Before you panic,” you said, and realized you didn’t know where you were going with the sentence, “... don’t.” 

 

“You’re covered in  _ blood _ ,” Phillipa said, and you didn’t have a reply, so you stayed quiet. “What happened?” She started walking off towards the bathroom and you followed. 

 

“You know me,” you said, “I’m not well equipped to deal with rude New Yorkers.” 

 

“That’s not telling me what happened.” She pointed at the toilet, snapping her fingers, and you sat. She dug through the cabinets until she found what she was looking for. She opened the latch holding the first aid box closed.

 

“You don’t always need to know my hobbies,” you replied, and she turned towards you, brandishing a roll of gauze and medical tape, antiseptic sitting on the counter. 

 

“Yes I do, especially when you come home bloody,” she replied. “Take your shirt off, I need to be able to see the cut.” 

 

“Um… alright,” you said, and took your shirt off slowly, cringing when you moved and felt your cut stretch. Finally, the bloody shirt was lying on the floor, and Phillipa was looking at your side. 

 

“So you didn’t get fully stabbed?” She asked, and looked you in the face. She gave you a shocked look, and you could only guess that a black eye or bruise was starting to show up. “But I’m guessing you got cut, and punched in the face.” 

 

“It was worth it,” you said, “if that helps.” 

 

“Was it?” She set the gauze and tape on the edge of the bathtub and wet a cloth in the sink. She started dabbing gently at the cut across your side. Her hands were shaking, and you felt bad about coming back home to her like this. You could only imagine how she felt. Probably something like how you would feel if the roles were reversed.

 

“Yeah,” you said, “if it wasn’t me, then it would’ve been the other girl.” 

 

She stopped moving, her hand hovering in the air a few inches from your skin. She looked up at you slowly. “Please, Y/N,” she pleaded. She looked like she was going to cry. “Just… please tell me what happened.” 

 

You told her. A man spewing hate on the sidewalk to a woman and her baby, minding their own business, the little girls mother covered from head to toe, her hair covered in a soft pink hijab. You had already been furious all day; rehearsal for Hamilton had kicked your ass, and you were sore. So you weren’t exactly thinking when you shoved the man, and you didn’t notice that he had a knife until suddenly you were bleeding and the woman’s baby was crying. The man had managed to sock you, knocking you off your feet, before running off. 

 

You had convinced the woman that, despite the blood that you were alright, and she didn’t call the police. You apologized for making a scene and she brushed it off, apologizing for something that wasn’t her fault, and eventually picked up her daughter and walked away after you told her over and over that you could make your own way home.

 

You walked the thirty minutes home, not wanting to take the subway and scare anyone on it, and ended your story at the point you reached your door. 

 

“Why would you do that?” Phillipa asked. She was looking at your cut, now spraying it with antiseptic, letting you squeeze her hand when it stung. Her hand felt right in yours, and you felt the poorly-suppressed flutters of a crush in your stomach, despite the situation being completely inappropriate for that. 

 

“It upset me,” you said, “you know how I am. And yeah, I should’ve ignored the guy and helped the woman, but he was closer and I just started seeing red.” 

 

“I’m glad that you would want to stand up and help her, but you’re not helping anyone when you get yourself hurt,” she said, “what if he had actually stabbed you? You could’ve died.” 

 

“At least they would’ve been okay.” 

 

“You can’t think like that!” Pippa said, and pulled her hand out of your grip. She set the bottle of antiseptic down on the counter, a little too hard, and sorted through the first aid kit again. “People care about you. They— _I_ — would be heartbroken if anything ever happened to you.” 

 

“But that mom and her kid,” you said, unable to fully explain what you meant. 

 

“I understand that, but there were so many better ways to deal with what happened,” she said, setting the first aid box back down. “Where’s the goddamn gauze?” She asked, half yelling, and running a hand through her hair. 

 

“Bathtub,” you said, and she turned around. She grabbed the gauze and the tape and motioned for you to stand up. “I’m sorry, but I still would rather me get hurt than anyone else. I’m tough. I can handle it.” 

 

“But you shouldn’t have to,” Pippa said, wrapping gauze around your side. The angle was awkward and she was twisting around to fully cover your cut. Her fingertips brushed against your skin and you felt goosebumps rise. “You shouldn’t  _ feel _ like you have to.” 

 

“I don’t feel like I have to,” you said, “I’d just rather—” 

 

“Well I wouldn’t, alright!” She shouted and you almost jumped, taking a small step back. She cut the gauze and taped it. “I’d be a mess if anything really bad happened to you. I’m already almost barely keeping it together now, and the only reason I am is because you’ve got a huge cut and a black eye and I know you wouldn’t go to the hospital.” 

 

“It’s not that big of a deal.” 

 

“Yes, it is,” she said, covering the cut on your arm. She cut the gauze and taped it, and then grabbed your shirt off the floor. “It’s a big deal to me, it’d be a big deal to Lin and to Jasmine and everyone else.” 

 

“Pip, it isn’t that big of an issue,” you said, “I’m fine.” 

 

“It’s a big issue.” She turned on the cold water and set your shirt in it, letting the blood soak out. “And you’re not fine. You’ve got a knife wound.” 

 

“How?” You said back, leaning against the wall, and ignoring the last ended of what she said. 

 

“Because, it just is!” She shouted.

 

“Because  _ how _ ?” You shouted back.

 

“Because I love you,” she replied, and then put her face in her hands. The tips of her fingers disappeared in her hair. 

 

You felt your breath and anger leave you all at once. Your lungs felt like collapsing. “I love you too. You know that.” 

 

“No, that’s not what I mean,” she pushed her hands back into her hair, tangling her fingers in it. She was staring at the sink. “I’m  _ in  _ love with you.” 

 

You took a deep breath, your lungs unfolding. “I’m in love with you, too.” The exhale made your side feel like it was on fire, and you started to buckle. 

 

Phillipa caught you, “Y/N, you—” 

 

“Have to go to the hospital,” you finished for her, righting yourself and testing your ability to be in motion, “Yeah, you’re right.” 

 

She exhaled and put your arm over her shoulders, looping hers around you and trying her best to avoid your cut. You felt her press a kiss to your temple once you made it out the door, and you mentally steeled yourself to go down the stairs. 

 

——

 

A taxi ride with minimal questions and a thirty minute wait in the emergency room, ended abruptly by Pippa losing patience and yelling  _ “she’s been  _ stabbed _ , for fucks sake!”  _ which quickly lurched the hospital staff into motion. 

 

The doctor was checking out the bandaging the nurses had done, trying to poke and prod as softly as she could. “Everything looks good,” she said, straightening up, “I’m gonna go make a copy of your charts to leave here, and we are gonna keep you overnight, just as a precaution.” She turned around, catching sight of Pippa in the doorway. “Who are you?” 

 

“Oh— uh— I’m her girlfriend,” Pippa said, her cheeks turning a deep red that your thought was impossibly adorable. 

 

“Ah, I see,” the doctor said, and stuck out her hand to shake. Pippa took it. “I’m Dr. Marten. Everything looks good with her, but she’s staying overnight just in case. Don’t be afraid to page us if you need anything.” 

 

“Thank you.” The doctor left the room and Pippa came over to you. She grabbed your face, cradling it gently, and dropped a soft kiss on your lips. She pulled one of your coils of hair softly.

 

“You’re on morphine and you’ll  _ definitely  _ be feeling the effects soon and I wanted to do that before that,” she whispered, and sat down on the end of your bed. “How’re you feeling?”

 

“Like I got stabbed,” you joked, and Pippa smiled through the thinly veiled disapproval, “but for real, I’m feeling better now that I’ve been professionally assessed.”

 

“The nurse said I did a really good job,” she defended. 

 

“Yeah but you’re Phillipa Soo, Broadway actress. Not Phillipa Soo, RN,” you teased, and Pippa stuck her tongue out at you. “Y’know what song I had stuck in my head this whole time?” 

 

Pippa cocked her head. “What song?” 

 

“Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” you said, and then sang, “glowing like the metal on the edge of a knife.” 

 

“That's  _ so _ not appropriate for this situation,” then laughed regardless through her disapproving look. “Speaking of Broadway…” Pippa said, and you gave her a look, “the cast may or may be demanding to see you from the waiting room.” 

 

“How threatening did Renée get?” 

 

“Only a little,” she said, holding her fingers up close together and crinkling her nose, “she’s just a mom-level of concerned.” 

 

“Go and get ‘em,” you said, stretching, “I want to see my family.” 

 

She nodded, getting up and cracking her neck. “I’ll be back.” She walked out, swinging herself around the doorframe, “I love you,” she sing-songed into your room, disappearing down the hall. 

 

You picked at your fingernails. Pippa kissed you. She called you her girlfriend. She _loved_ you, and she said so. You laughed to yourself softly, thinking, _all it took was getting stabbed_. 

 


End file.
